A Poor Remembrance of His dreamR.A. Stevesson
The conditioned air, receded from poor
Henry as he sits, he steams
And stives himself the way
He learnt from books and balls
And gin—against the roof, his mouth and
Moonlit summer’s flair for the abrupt
Ending things, spoke less much, he
Never meant for collision or coll-
apse, but Temptations harbored and
led him to await his next viaticum
Brooding at the Visions that escaped
The summer’s heat, burnt and belied
His eyes checked nothing, the stars
Would not align and the nigh-knocking
September stuffed the days,
Anxiety replacing the sundry happi-
Nesses that busy Henry found in
Friends and beer and brats and balls
My moocow needs to awaken but my alarms don't rouse for sleep. Four more forward things press my snooze, forewarned of schisms in my dreams (of utopian pastures, wherefore my moocow needs more food and the shade of trees). You both protest too much. The broth is settling still, the bursted bubbles bale my lost sense of urgency, no boils or hail helm my anxieties, which brood on softer sinews in their complacent undulation between cud and other rumination. My moocow says she doth hear anew what you would have her chew. Poor Henry and Slim Jimmy sit stooped under the eave of the school, looking past the yard and upon one moocow Henrietta Decker, nee Bogglebottoms, who bursts with lactate and laconiac surmisions. She looks back wondering whose cud they chew.
